


Lost Somewhere in the Dark

by Geonn



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: 1930s, Brothels, Crossdressing, Dark, F/F, F/M, Genderplay, Investigations, Paris (City), Pegging, Prostitution, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Watson travels to Occupied France when a series of murders baffles the local police and begins to fear that Helen Magnus has followed John Druitt's descent into madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a soundtrack suggestion, find "Paris is Burning" by St. Vincent and put it on repeat while you read.

Darkness took on a new meaning on these streets. Even the inky blackness of a foggy London evening provided the most subtle of glows; the moon peeking through the veil or streetlamps visible like will-o'-the-wisps in the distance. In Paris the streets were black as pitch. Windows were heavily shuttered and covered with thick clothes so that no light escaped. Streetlamps were completely extinguished. James Watson sat in the backseat of the police car that rolled slowly through vacant streets, its headlights just bright enough to prevent a collision and allow the driver to see where he was going.

Commissaire Collin Savreux was waiting outside of the morgue when James arrived. He stepped out of the car on the opposite side from Inspector Principal Daquin. Savreux stepped forward as James replaced his bowler. He stretched as surreptitiously as possible, his joints and those of his contraption aching after the long journey. Under better circumstances he would have stopped first at his accommodations to recuperate, but time was of the essence.

"Monsieur." Savreux kept his voice hushed to prevent it from traveling in the oppressive darkness. "Thank you for coming. I know it was not an easy journey."

"But worth the effort, if your fears are accurate."

"Dr. Watson, I assure you, I wish nothing more than to have summoned you for a false alarm." Even in the darkness James could see how unlikely that prospect was, but how fervently the detective was hoping. "This way, if you please."

James paused after the door was closed behind them, the corridor seeming as bright as midday after the swimming black of outdoors. Once his eyes adjusted he continued after Savreux's barrel-shaped body, the material of his coat stretched between two muscular shoulders atop which sat a stone of a head. They descended a short flight of steps to a chilled space with white-brick walls. James' attention was drawn to one of the tables in the center of the room, the body atop it draped by a white sheet. 

Savreux moved to the opposite side of the table and watched James, waiting for the okay to lift the sheet and reveal the damage underneath. James nodded almost immediately and braced himself as the woman's body was revealed. He was sickened more by how young she appeared than by the bloody slash running along her throat. The wound he had seen before, but he would never get accustomed to a life cut so short. 

James had no doubt she would have looked older in life. The makeup she'd surely used to add a decade or so to her years washed away and vanished down a sink to leave this child who had resorted to such horrific means just to survive in a harsh place. He put his hand on top of her head as if to stroke her hair, but then lifted pinched fingers to reveal a piece of plaster. "It would appear the mortician did not do as thorough a job as one might like."

"He was aghast, sir," Savreux said quietly. "Fourth one in ten days."

"Fourth?" James looked up. "You told me three."

"This girl was found while you were en route."

"Damn." James looked at the body again. "Was she found in the same area as the others?"

"Montmartre," Savreux said with a nod. "All within the same ten block radius."

James motioned for Savreux to move on to the next body. One by one he examined the corpses. Four women brutally murdered in the space of ten days, all slashed with a blade and expertly eviscerated. James drew the sheets down to examine the torso, covering his mouth with a handkerchief liberally doused with cologne as he moved from the most recent victim to the first. Savreux made noises of apology for their condition, but James waved him off. They'd done everything they could.

Finally, when the last woman was again draped and the brutalities hidden, Savreux seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Out of sight, out of mind. He watched as James paced along the foot of the tables, seemingly willing to await his verdict, but impatience got the better of him.

"It is him, no?"

James looked up as if he had forgotten the Commissaire's presence. "Pardon?"

"The..." Savreux lowered his voice and stepped closer. "The Ripper. It is him."

"Jack the Ripper was active nearly fifty years ago," James murmured. 

Savreux tutted. "And if one is to believe the rumors, you investigated those crimes. As well as the revival of murders ten years on." He glanced toward the sheets and shuddered as he recalled what lay underneath their pristine whiteness. "Even if you are not the same man, Monsieur Watson, these killings match the public record all too well. Our lives are brief, but we are mortal. Surely anything capable of this violence is subhuman. And monsters tend to be long-lived, do they not?"

"And occasionally," James mused, "the long-lived tend to be monsters."

"Pardon?"

James shook his head dismissively. "I do not believe these murders were the product of the killer dubbed 'Jack the Ripper.' While it is possible, I suppose, I deem it highly unlikely. However, it is abundantly apparent there is a killer stalking the streets of Paris. Commissaire Savreux, I will do everything in my power to bring him... or her... to justice."

Savreux was taken aback. "Monsieur, surely you do not believe a woman is capable of such extreme violence and degradation!"

James remained stoic, his voice steady as he looked at the row of dead bodies. "I sincerely hope not, Collin. For all of our sakes."

#

In December of 1942, Helen Magnus disappeared behind enemy lines into Occupied France. James received this information with a twist of his lips and continued drinking his tea. It wasn't unusual for her to take such risks. During the Great War, or rather World War I as people seemed to be calling it these days, she had gone into war zones countless times in order to find and rescue Abnormals who were being caught in the crossfire. When she returned, sometimes bloodied and often driven to the point of exhaustion, they had window-rattling rows about her recklessness. 

"Need I remind you that your gift is long-life, not immortality! All it would take is a single bullet finding its mark, just one!"

"Which makes me no different than anyone else on the battlefield! Why is it acceptable for them to take the risk if not for me?"

"You are a woman--"

"Don't you dare!"

"It is a simple statement of fact that women--"

"I may have had the poor judgment to be born female, but those soldiers are _boys_. They're children. How can you chastise me for being ill-suited for war when we're sending schoolboys to shoot at each other?"

Their fights never ended, precisely. They would retreat to their neutral territories, shun each other for long stretches, and then one or the other would make a silent peace offering that returned things to normal. He soon stopped trying to talk her out of foolish endeavors, instead choosing to remain behind so he would be there when she came home and needed help. A bandaged hand, a head wound that required stitches or, once, a bullet that had to be removed from her arm. Once she was well enough to leave her infirmary she would tour the facilities to see what changes he had made. The last time she'd stroked back his hair and teased the strands that were long enough to rest on his shirt collar. 

"Quite a bohemian look, James." She curled her finger around one lock and tugged. 

He winced and swatted at her, but she moved out of his reach with a laugh. 

She had also changed during her sojourns. First the ringlets disappeared from her hair, the long straight veils pinned back at the base of her neck. She kept the style for nearly five years before she shocked him - and most that saw her on the streets - by chopping off her chignon so that the ends fell even with her jaw line. Behind closed doors she explained it was for ease of movement; if she was to masquerade as a male, she needed to do something with her hair. The easiest solution was to just chop off the excess.

In 1937, she returned from a trip to India with henna in her hair. He was so startled when she removed her cap and asked his opinion that he blurted out that he'd always liked her with dark hair. She gave him a queer look and shook her head.

"And when have you ever seen me with dark hair, James Watson?"

He tapped his temple and turned back to what he'd been doing. "The great detective, my dear. I can see evidence even in the hypothetical. Although I'm surprised it looks so... red. I always imagined it darker. More brown."

Helen teased her bangs with two fingers. "Brown. Hm. Perhaps the next time I feel like a change." 

That was the one predictable aspect of Helen Magnus' character: she changed. The first time, just after the turn of the century, she claimed it necessary to change her appearance so no one would notice she'd been haunting the streets of London for nearly thirty years without aging. He and Nikola did the same, growing facial hair only to chop it off in different arrangements as the years passed. Currently he was clean-shaven, but he had a feeling he might attempt a Van Dyke soon.

After a few decades James realized Helen used the changes to denote different eras in her life. He also noticed rather quickly that she did the same thing with lovers. After John's betrayal, she became a bit of a spinster. She wore widow's weeds though they'd never married and, for all they knew, he was still alive out there somewhere. Still, he couldn't blame her for mourning. He grieved a bit himself after the dust settled and left the remnants of the Five scattered in its wake.

For a time it seemed likely Helen would never take another lover. They settled into their private lives as a lifelong bachelor and his dowager companion, though both were still far too young for either title to be wholly accurate. James was satisfied with the arrangement until the night when Helen approached his chair, took the book from his hands, and climbed onto his lap. She wedged her legs between his and the chair, her gown draping his lower body like a blanket. He pressed back, unable to retreat in any other way as her hand moved between them.

"I apologize, James, but it's been long enough."

Their coupling was hardly romantic. James remained passive - for the most part - and allowed Helen to thrust against his lap until she achieved completion. He watched her face, dropping his eyes to the buttons on her bodice and the pale pink that spread above her collar as she rolled her hips against his exposed erection. Afterward she used her hand to ensure he finished as well, and he allowed her to clean up the resulting mess with his handkerchief. She kissed his lips and he remembered the nights at Oxford, between her and John, and decided that the past didn't have to be buried just because they'd been left behind.

Helen soon revealed other plans. Just as he was preparing to renew their carnal relations, this time without John, she fled to Vienna. It wasn't until later that he discovered she'd gone with Nikola, and that the two shared accommodations while there. When they returned he caught Helen absently stroking her neck or touching her thigh through her dress when she thought James wasn't watching. He was torn by emotions - jealousy, loathing, disgust that she would allow him to drink from her... - but he kept them carefully hidden.

In 1920, Helen took her first female lover. Or at the very least, the first James knew about. When he confronted her she first pointed out the hypocrisy of his argument before she shook her head and went back to what she'd been doing. "I'm nearly seventy years old, James. If I don't have a bit of variety from time to time, I'll simply go mad from the monotony."

"Is that what I am now? Monotony?"

"Oh, James. You know I could never tire of you."

"Sometimes I wonder."

She was the woman who went into war zones. The woman who bravely stepped into combat zones while others fled. She never claimed the rules didn't apply to her, she simply implied that the rules were for those who needed an excuse to play their lives safely. She wasn't willing to compromise. She owed her life and vitality to the pursuit of the strange and exciting, and she didn't plan to stop any time soon.

So it wasn't callousness that the butler saw when James handed back the card saying Helen had slipped away from her escort. He'd simply heard the news far too often to waste the concern. Helen believed escorts were made to be escaped from, just one of many hurdles that she had to clear in order to achieve whatever goal was on her mind that day. There was an inkling of worry that this time she'd vanished into Occupied France, but he was certain she could take care of herself. He thanked the butler and sent him away.

Now that James was behind the line himself, he couldn't help but worry he'd been too dismissive of the danger. The Inspector Principal dropped him off at a safe house where he could stay for the duration, near enough to the police station that he was available but not so close that he would get in their way. He took his bag into the room and checked to make sure the windows were sufficiently shuttered before he turned on the lamps. He had information from the police and autopsies of each woman, and he spread them out on the table as he considered the facts.

Four victims in the space of ten days, all of them prostitutes. Solange Monfort was the first, last seen at the brothel where she conducted her business. She escorted her final client out the doors and returned to her room. A few minutes later at 11:53, she left without saying goodbye to the other girls and slipped out into the night. A "friend" the police spoke to claimed Solange worked a second job at a strip club near Gare Saint-Lazare, but he didn't know which one exactly. A canvas was done, but no one at clubs within walking distance of the brothel recognized Solange's name or her description. She was found when a man breaking curfew tripped over her body on the way back from visiting his mistress. The first newspaper article quoted the man as saying, "It was just like England's Ripper all over again."

Two nights later, Liliane Lavie was reported missing by her mother. Mme Lavie assured the police that her daughter was a good girl and would never wallow in the gutter with those whores who sold their body for pennies. But Commissaire Savreux noticed that their larder was full of bread and meat, a bounty that could only be explained by purchasing on the black market. Liliane was discovered the next morning, nude and murdered by a blade, with no attempt by the killer to cover up the gruesome results. Bruises and tears between her legs indicated she'd had sex before dying; there was no way to tell if the intercourse had been consensual or forced.

James stood and walked to the bar. He poured himself a stiff beverage and forced himself to drink it slowly. When he was done, he walked back to the divan to read about Myriam Rameau, the girl found seated in her car with her dress buttoned over her wounds. A patrol officer thought she was sleeping off a bender and shook her, at which point the dress fell open. The poor man's screams were heard all throughout Paris, and many thought the killer had turned his attention on male victims. It was the case that forced Savreux to call for help.

James only wished he had arrived in time to save poor Delphine Mauthier, although he knew she would most likely have died no matter when he arrived. She didn't have the luxury of working in a brothel, and he got the impression she sold herself for whatever the buyer was willing to give. Food or clothing, perhaps even shelter. The police had found no fixed address for her, though her clothes and jewelry argued that she wasn't homeless. In addition to the knife wounds, it was clear that she'd scuffled with her murderer. The plaster he found in her hair, along with a tear along the inside of her cheek. A miniscule tear caused, he deduced, by the scraping of teeth along the flesh after a blow to the right side of her face. Scuffs on her shoes indicated she had fallen or been pushed backward at a sharp angle. The bastard had knocked her down, climbed on top of her, and went to work.

It was theoretically possible for John to be their culprit. They'd seen neither hide nor hair of him since the Adam Worth business, although he had a suspicion that Helen still saw him from time to time and kept the visits quiet. At last report he was out there, somewhere, shuffling from one place to the next in search of... something. James couldn't fathom what the man hoped to discover. If he had a brain in his head he would have stayed at the Sanctuary. Even as a prisoner it would be the best place for him. If they were able to examine him, see what had caused his sudden personality shift, then there was a chance they could find a way to cure him of it.

He thought to the last copycat of the Ripper murders. Earlier that year there'd been a soldier in London, Gordon Cummins, to whom some in the press assigned the "Ripper" moniker. Ten years after John's spree, another series of killings had convinced him that their old friend was back. Helen was also convinced, but it was she who eventually pointed him in the right direction, albeit in an unbelievable manner that even now he was reluctant to speak of out loud.

Putting aside the information about the victims, he focused on the police reports. They were ridiculously sparse, but he supposed he would take what he could get considering the murders occurred during the evening blackout. He'd just seen for himself how complete the darkness was. They could have passed the killer claiming his next victim and never known it. He shuddered at the thought and picked up Solange Monfort's information.

Her last customer had been a dark-haired man of average height with a small mustache. According to the brothel's madam, he'd worn a tan shirt, black suspenders, a small brown bowtie, and a pair of pinstripe slacks. He and Solange spent the evening together "at the standard price," and then he departed by way of the back door. Three hours later, Solange was found murdered. According to the madam his named was listed as Jean Dupont. He might as well have signed in as Joe Bloggs or John Smith for all the help it would be.

Liliane Lavie's body was found abandoned, but a shopkeeper reported nearly being knocked over by someone barreling down the street from the direction of the crime scene. He had been preparing for dawn and the start of his day when the man came out of the darkness like a wraith and their shoulders collided. He shouted after him, but the man merely glanced over his shoulder and kept walking. All he remembered was a flat cap pulled low, a collar flipped up against a cheek, and that the man didn't say anything in the way of an apology before turning back 'round and disappearing as quickly as he had popped up. The shopkeeper did mention that he seemed to be moving stiffly, like a school kid with a nun forcing him to keep books balanced on his head.

A detective at the scene of Myriam Rameau's death, not the poor soul who discovered her but another more seasoned officer, reported a man watching the goings-on from the corner. He'd approached to ask if he knew anything about the crime, but the watcher saw him coming and fled. The detective's description made James tense: average height, dark hair, small mustache, bow tie. On this occasion he'd worn a flat cap and a jacket with the collar turned up, which made James believe it was the same person seen fleeing Liliane Lavie's scene.

There were no witnesses to Delphine Mauthier's death, no one seen hurrying away from the site or anyone to report suspicious people lurking in the hours before she died. She had lived on her own and died the same way, but James presumed he could guess what anyone looking might have said. Although with his own insight, he was able to clarify a few of the rougher points. 

Witnesses reported a man of average height, but that wasn't entirely true. In point of fact they were describing a woman of slightly-above-average height. She wore ties - in this instance, a bowtie - to justify buttoning her collar even when the afternoon has grown sweltering. She used the collar to disguise the smoothness of her throat. The suspect's stiff posture, noted by the shopkeeper, was actually due to a corset that kept her bosom constricted so as to not provide any telltale curves to her profile.

He knew because he'd dressed her the first time. He had tucked the shirt into her trousers and shown her how to put on the sock garters.

"Are these really necessary?" she asked.

"The key to good subterfuge is taking care with even the parts that won't be seen."

"Then I suppose I'll also need a cock."

James had been flustered by the casual comment, even after all the years spent with Helen, but he'd tried not to show it. He took one of the smaller rubber devices she sometimes used on him when they shared a bed and tucked it into her tight briefs. She covered his hand with her own, smiling as she helped him move it into place, and he'd refused to let her see how flustered he was. 

Could Jean Dupont be Helen Magnus? The story that she'd spent the evening paying for Solange's company... feasible. Helen occasionally took prostitutes to bed as it was easier than finding a woman of suitable proclivities for free. Even if she was ostensibly on a mission for the Sanctuary, the woman had needs. A brothel was as good a place as any to wait for dawn during the blackout.

He forced himself to look at the graphic drawings of the corpses again. A dull pencil had marked the places where each woman was cut, gouged, eviscerated... they had been torn apart. Was Helen capable of causing such damage on another human being? He immediately dismissed the question; he knew that she was. He'd seen her attack men who threatened her, or anyone who had threatened her work. At least thrice his life had been saved by her timely intervention. She had no qualms with using deadly force when the need arose. But to kill innocent women in cold blood? That was not the Helen he knew.

Or rather, it was not _yet_ the Helen he knew. For decades the "Other" had haunted his nightmares. His mind painted her in stark blacks and whites: pale and ashen skin, eyes turned gray, lips pulled back across gravestone teeth. Her lank hair, wet from the rain and black as the night outside the shutters, hung in her face like the tentacles of some great beast. She cursed and she threatened, she fought. She swung a blade as if it had grown from her hand at birth. She was a dark creature and he hoped she had found peace on her century-long vacation. 

For a long time he thought that something had happened to Helen, something had caused her to become the dark martyr who chased a man into the past for the sole purpose of assassinating him. But now he had to wonder. There was a time he'd have thought John incapable of the same crimes. Utter tosh, the idea that Montague John Druitt would ever put blade to flesh and draw blood. But then his darkness became apparent, his bloodlust too strong to hide any longer, and he and Helen were both caught flatfooted.

Perhaps Helen had just fought the urge longer. Perhaps her frequent escapades into war zones were ways for her to cover the carnage she caused. Who would notice a few more slashed corpses in a war zone, after all? He wished he had a way to contact the other, the elder Helen going by the name Bancroft, but they'd both agreed that would only lead to bad decisions on both their parts. Could this be the moment? Had the same darkness that took hold of John and Nikola now be claiming Helen?

He stood with the intention of standing at the window, but he stopped himself. He knew that even if he opened the shutters and risked making himself a target for the Allied bombers, all he would see is an extinguished City of Light. He didn't need another reason to be depressed. Instead he went to stand in front of the empty fireplace. Too many fires had been burned there, and the brick was scarred and scorched even on the outside of the hearth. Was that was the Source blood did to them? Forced them to burn too hot for too long, keeping them in service long after their time so they had no choice but to burn? John with the blade. Nikola's teeth. Nigel's thievery. And now Helen? Was he the last one standing?

James moved his hand to the controls of his device, the contraption he, Helen, and Nikola had conspired to create so his intellect could survive for a few more decades. It wasn't vanity, it was necessity. The criminals of the world were becoming more sophisticated. He needed to see what methods they took so he could devise ways to counteract them. He extended his life to do the world good, not out of any personal gain.

 _It's allowed you to spend the past fifty years with Helen Magnus._ He silenced the voice and walked slowly into his room. He was still tossing the crime scene information back and forth in his mind, trying to put all the disparate pieces together. From his current position, all signs seemed to point to Helen Magnus being the killer. He'd once ignored road signs like that. He had stared the truth in the face and dismissed it because he loved the person to whom they pointed. He'd fought tooth and nail for another explanation, and women died for his folly.

He unbuttoned his shirt and ran his fingers over the tubes, wires, and dials that sustained his life. He was determined he wouldn't make the same mistake again. He would follow the evidence wherever it led, to whomever it led, and he would deal with the situation by any means necessary. There was already one remorseless and immortal killer running loose in the world; he would not allow Helen to join him. If Helen was responsible for these crimes, she would die.

"Please," he whispered. He didn't know if he was speaking to a deity he'd long stopped believing in or just to his own mind. "Please, don't let it be her. I beg of you, don't let it be her."

He had no hopes that his voice had been heard, either by terrestrial or ethereal eavesdroppers, so he lifted his feet and stretched out on the mattress. If the killer had been striking with a set schedule, then another body would be found either in the morning or the day after. If tomorrow, there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could only ensure that he was rested so he could hit the ground running as soon as he woke up. The rest would also give his mind the opportunity to ruminate on what he had learned.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning light revealed the street outside his door for the first time. James felt as if he truly understood the sensation John must have whenever he teleported. He stood on the sidewalk in an unfamiliar neighborhood, familiarizing himself with the environs so he would be able to find his way back before night fell. Commissaire Savreux offered him an escort, but he declined. He would prefer to investigate his long-time friend alone. It wasn't that he distrusted the police, but he also didn't plan on exposing Helen's presence to their Nazi puppet masters. 

He turned into the wind and began walking toward Montmartre, the hill that gave the neighborhood its name giving him a landmark to move toward. Even if Helen wasn't responsible for the murders, something he had to believe until he had concrete evidence, her Jean Dupont had made appearances at all four crime scenes. No matter what her involvement he knew he would find her nearby.

As he walked he kept his mind on the macabre information he'd received the night before. The women, slaughtered much the way John had killed the women in London. But why? That was one question he had yet to answer to his satisfaction. The fact John had so brutally slaughtered so many innocent women was shocking enough, but the way he had done it! The few times they'd spoken since the truth came out James had tried to extract the truth from him, but John refused to give a satisfactory answer.

Now his legacy lived on in Paris. He fervently hoped that Helen would not prove to be his protégé, but he would allow the facts to speak for themselves. 

Though Helen could well afford to live in luxury no matter where she went, she often preferred the anonymity of cheaper accommodations. He walked through the poor part of the arrondissement and considered the different possibilities. Traversing a block that was equidistant or at least within casual walking distance of all four murders, he began to narrow down his choices. 

He discarded the position of Myriam Rameu's body. She was found in a car, and therefore could have been moved from her final resting place. Solange Monfort's brothel had been frequented by Helen as Jean, so it stood to reason it would be convenient to her. Liliane Lavie and Delphine Mauthier were found and likely attacked on the street, crimes of convenience perhaps. James held a map in his mind, and one by one the streets were stricken from it. The possibilities were dropped one by one until he stood in front of the only building left.

It was a simple brick building, shoved in the neutral space between two larger walk-ups. Windows crowded the face of it, as if eager to give the inhabitants a sense of space they wouldn't get within the walls. He stepped through the recessed front door and paused to take in his surroundings before stepped to one side to a door marked MANAGER. James assumed the title provided the occupant a free apartment and that his main occupation was avoiding work brought to him by the residents. He knocked twice before picking the lock and stepping inside. The room reeked of body odor and sweat, but he soldiered through.

The apartment was one-room, with an attempt at demarcating the different areas with furniture. A counter stood between the living room and kitchen, while a desk was the boundary between the main room and the bedroom. James approached the desk and searched for a ledger, flipping it open to scan the names of the current residents.

Jean Dupont. Apt 4-A.

James searched to ensure there weren't any other "Jean Duponts" living in the building before he left and re-locked the door behind him. The stairs were littered with clothing and discarded newspapers, books stacked against each riser as if trying to make passage impossible. Laundry lines were stretched from windows that faced the alley, and he muttered apologies as he passed dead-eyed women going through the motions of ordinary chores. A few of them eyed his suit and bowler, but no one spoke to him before he reached the fourth floor.

He stared at the knob of 4-A but didn't consider touching it. He stepped back to examine the whole door frame, alert for anything that stood out as unusual or out of place. He dropped to the floor and peered at the light that flowed underneath. Something was blocking half the light, something that was placed in line with the knob. James stood again and held his hand in front of the lock, smiling when he felt the heat emanating from it. A chair or a stool on the other side of the door with a candle placed just underneath the metal knob. Any thief would scald himself if he tried the door, and anyone foolhardy to force through after that would knock over the candle and start a fire that would take precedence over any search.

"Well done, Helen," he muttered despite himself. 

She would still need a means of entering the apartment herself, so he brushed off his trousers as he thought about that problem. He hadn't seen a fire escape, and the windows below were occupied by women washing their family's clothing. They would have noticed their neighbor scrambling up and down the side of the building every time he wanted to leave. He brought a hand to his face and brushed his thumb over his upper lip, missing his mustache. 

It stood to reason that the manager's apartment was standard for the building. He closed his eyes and created a blueprint in his mind. In it, he placed the candle under the doorknob. He saw the closet at the back of the apartment, merely a cubby hole where one could hang their clothes. Cheaply constructed, with plywood walls. James tilted his head to the side and recalled the ledger of current residents. Jean Dupont lived in 4-A, but Room 4-B belonged to...

Gregory Feathering. The name of Helen's father and the middle name of her mother. 

He opened his eyes and took three steps to the door of Helen's neighbor. A quick scan told him that the door was unguarded, so he picked the lock and slipped inside. The room was unfurnished, unlived-in, and he crossed the empty space to the closet. Sure enough a quick tap at the upper corners loosened it, and he was able to turn the sheet to reveal the closet of Jean Dupont's room. He smiled at his victory and replaced the barrier so Helen wouldn't be instantly alerted to his intrusion and began to search the room. He spotted the candle trap and saw that, as suspected, any attempt to knock the door down would cause the flame to tilt into a waste bin full of flammable refuse. It was a high risk, to be sure, but most likely safer in the long run than having someone invade her private space.

He didn't need a keen intellect to know where Helen would hide her most sensitive possessions. They had been together for sixty years, the length of a happy marriage, and he had learned how her mind worked. Helen didn't like sharing space with her secrets. He paced with his head tilted back to examine the ceiling and also listening for loose floorboards underfoot. Helen's clothing was draped over the back of the chesterfield, while her wet laundry was draped over the shower rod. He was surprised to see feminine underthings on the rod, and paused in his search to look at the rest of her wardrobe. Apparently she wasn't Jean Dupont every time she went out, as he suddenly noticed blouses and skirts among her trousers and undershirts. 

James crouched next to the bathtub and leaned over the lip, examining the tarnished silver of the drain. He took out a napkin and wrapped the cloth around his finger before pushing it into the darkness and brushing the side of the pipe. Rust and corrosion, but to his trained eye he could also see blood. Another bit of damning evidence. He stood and scanned the room once more, wondering if there were clues he was just not allowing himself to see. He saw no knives on the small counter that constituted her kitchen. Was a lack of knives a clue in and of itself? Was she guiltily hiding anything even remotely related to her blackout activities?

"I won't allow this to happen again," he swore to the empty room.

The walls of the building were thin enough that he heard boots passing in the corridor. They were slowing enough that he knew they were going to stop in front of 4-B. Helen was home.

He wasn't prepared to face her, not until he had more information, but the one-room apartment didn't afford him much opportunity for concealment. Of all the times he could have used Nigel... He finally dropped to the floor and crab-crawled under the bed. He ended up facing out from beneath the foot of the bed just as the plywood partition was moved out of the way and Helen entered her room. She paused to examine her secret entrance, brushing her hand over the top corners and then dismissing whatever had troubled her.

She was dressed as Jean Dupont, with a vest over her shirt and her red hair tucked underneath a flat cap. Today she wore a thin necktie instead of a bowtie. She untucked her shirt from the waistband of her pants as she crossed the room and began filling a teapot with water. James watched, his view obscured by the edge of the blankets, as she rested both hands on the counter and leaned forward.

Her demeanor reeked of defeat, and it was all he could do to remain where he was. He ached to take her in his arms, hold her, and give her comfort. When the teapot was ready she wiped both hands down her face and began making tea. The smell of apples filled the air as she steeped it with apple peels, something James had never seen before, and she grimaced when she took her first sip. Obviously a needs-must situation, what with the rationing and shortages. There was some comfort, however, in the fact that even in the midst of everything else, Helen Magnus took a break for a spot of tea. It reassured him that a piece of the Helen he knew and loved still existed.

She carried her tea to the bed and, to James' dismay, sat directly over him. The mattress sagged and he moved his head to one side just before it would have been squeezed into the floorboards. She raised one foot and, a moment later, her shoe was dropped onto the floor. The other followed, and he watched as she stretched her feet and curled her toes. "Good Lord, that's blessed," she murmured under her breath. James wondered if she had been out all evening.

Finally her feet rose out of sight, and her weight was spread across the mattress above his body. He moved furtively to the left so he would be able to escape if needed, and listened carefully to the sounds of her breath. After twenty minutes it was clear she had fallen asleep, but Helen could wake at the drop of a hat. She once claimed to have woken because someone in the room _thought_ about her, but James considered that spurious.

He gave her another ten minutes to fall into a REM sleep pattern before he scooted forward. He paused at the foot of the bed, waiting for a gasp of surprise or a cry of anger. When none was forthcoming he turned to look at her. She was curled on her side, her shirt unbuttoned to reveal the bindings that held her breasts. The mustache attached to her upper lip with spirit gum was still there; it was probably more hassle to take it off and then put it back on than to just deal with it for an hour. Her eyes were closed, but her cheeks were wet with tears she hadn't been conscious to stop.

Her hands were curled, one over her stomach and one on the pillow next to her face. He tried to imagine them holding a knife, tried seeing her hunched over the body of a mutilated woman shoving the blade into the pliant flesh. He knew she had slept with Solange, but the others? Had Helen made love to them all before... what, destroying them in an act of loathing? No. Helen had never been ashamed of her sexuality. If anything she flaunted it, inviting her conquests to breakfast so she could introduce them to James.

She inhaled sharply, so suddenly that even James was startled. She shifted and moved her hand from her stomach to the front of her trousers, cupping the bulge that rested underneath. "Mm. James..." The word was part question and part plea. He knew she'd smelled his cologne, knew that it wouldn't take much for her to realize it wasn't part of her dream and find him standing over her. He retreated as quickly as silence would allow, easing the partition open and closing it behind him just as easily.

He waited until he was back on the street to take a breath. He adjusted his jacket and brushed off the dust he'd accumulated from crawling around on the floor. Before departing he looked up, even though he knew Helen's apartment faced the back of the building. He remembered the tea, the fact she'd called out to him in her sleep, and he knew that even if she was gone, she wasn't gone completely.

"If any part of you remains, Helen, I swear to you. I will find it. And I will bring you back."

He walked from Helen's apartment to the brothel where Solange Monfort plied her trade, arriving a mere five minutes after he set out. The front door was barred at such an early hour, of course, but he knocked until someone within was disturbed enough to answer the door. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw that he was addressing the dark eye of a revolver. He snapped his jaw shut, tilted his head to the side, and said, "Ah."

"Evening detective," a refined-sounding woman said from the other side of the weapon. "You want to come back after dark, we'll be more than happy to sell to you. But as the sun is out and we're exhausted from a long night of hard-earned pay, I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell you to shuffle on and not make trouble for none of us girls. We put in a good nights' work and we're awful tired. So kindly remove yourself from the premises 'fore I have to blow you back onto public property."

"If I may make a point?"

"If you make it quick."

"My name is James Watson. I'm a consulting detective from London, and if you would grant me a few moments of your time I may be able to bring an end to the recent horrors visited upon you and those of your ilk. I merely wish to examine Solange's room to see if there's anything the police missed, whether purposefully or out of ignorance, in the hopes it could lead me to the killer of these poor women before he strikes again. Also, if you are going to threaten intruders with an empty weapon, I would suggest one where the ammunition isn't visibly absent." He pulled a pistol from beneath the tail of his jacket, flipped it around, and held it to her by the barrel. "If you would like to trade."

The barrel wavered, and the woman came into view as she took his weapon. She held it on her left hand, the empty one hanging by her side. 

"Madam Thierry insists on the weapon, 'specially what happened to poor Solange."

"It's understandable, and a decent idea. But I fear you'll have a difficult time frightening anyone who truly means you harm. Ammunition is far too precious and they might take the risk you don't really have any."

The girl shrugged and, after a moment, stepped aside to let him into the foyer. He dipped his chin out of gratitude and came into the darkened house of ill-repute. She was younger even than Solange had been, and therefore even more caked in makeup. There was a touch of the Orient in her features, too subtle for the brothel to play on by dressing her in a kimono and calling her a geisha, but enough for his trained eye to spot. Her dark hair was twisted on top of her head like a crown, and even after business hours ended she was dressed in a black-and-red gown that left her shoulders and décolletage bare.

"As I said, my name is James."

After a pause, the girl grudgingly said, "Josette." She nodded him to the stairs and led him up. James tried not to feel self-conscious being taken up to the private rooms by a girl done up like a doxy. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly so as not to arouse the other girls in the house, wincing at his mind's poor choice of phrasing.

"Were you and Solange friends?"

"We were friendly, but not friends." Her hand skimmed the railing as she turned on the landing, glancing back before focusing again on her destination. "She was prettier than I am, so she got more of the gentlemen to take her upstairs." She paused and looked back at him with a coquettish smile. "That don't mean I'd kill her just for the privilege of spreading my legs more often. I was more than happy to have a half hour off from time to time."

"The thought never crossed my mind," James lied. 

At the top of the stairs Josette guided him to the third door on the left. She twisted the knob and peeked inside. Assured that the room was empty, she opened the door wide and gestured for James to cross the threshold with her. The room was plain, but made to look extravagant despite the oppression of their new occupiers. The wallpaper was pale peach and the curtains a deep crimson. The bed was covered with thick blankets that piled up like snow drifts. Josette closed the door behind them.

"Don't want no one seein' us snooping."

"Right, of course." James moved toward the bed. "This is where Solange worked? Did she live here as well?"

Josette shook her head. "Lots of girls do, like me. But Solange had a second job, so she could afford to buy her own little place. Sometimes she'd let other girls spend the night if they needed to get away from here for a few hours."

"Did you know Jean Dupont?"

Josette shook her head. "No one did, just Solange. She brought him here from her other job, and he never saw anyone else. He'd wait hours downstairs 'til she was available, wouldn't take anyone else. Believe me, I tried. He's a beautiful man. Looks like he'd be gentle, you know? Sweet." She chewed her bottom lip. "Wonder if he'll be looking for a replacement? Gah, I'm awful, aren't I?"

"You're only thinking of your livelihood. I won't hold it against you." 

She looked around the room. "Don't know what you're looking for here. Mizz Thierry cleaned it out after Solange was found so another girl could use it. Not that none of us do, you know. We're letting it sit a while. Outta respect."

James nodded. "Of course. Sometimes it helps to simply occupy the space as a victim. This was where Solange spent a great deal of time, and it was the last place she was seen alive. There might be something important here. I just have to be careful enough to know what it might be."

"Well, you're the detective." She raised her head slightly. "Wait a minute. Watson. Like them books."

He resisted the urge to grunt. "Yes. Like the books."

"Oh, love those. Ratiocination an' all."

James regarded her. "Actually, that was Dupin. But well done! Not many would know of Poe's premiere consulting detective."

"Not many in my line, you mean."

"Not many people, full-stop. You're a very impressive young woman, Josette."

She smiled and moved closer. "Maybe if you were in the mood, we could figure something out together..." She put her hand on his shoulder and brushed it down his back. 

"I apologize, Josette, but I'm afraid I'm not a very viable client for you."

"Little light on cash?"

He smiled and lowered his voice to match her conspiratorial tone. "I prefer the company of men."

"Oh, well. I got means. And a mouth's a mouth, right?" She winked at him but, sensing he wasn't likely to change his mind, gave up the pursuit. She dropped her hand but didn't move out of his personal space. "Solange said she had another job, but the other police said that they couldn't find anywhere that employed her. Course if she was lying, where'd she get the money for her swank place?"

"An excellent question, Josette." He looked at her. "You recognized me as a detective as soon as you looked through the peephole."

She scoffed. "Seen enough of 'em through these doors to know one when I see one. You might not carry a badge, but you're a lawman all right."

He paced forward. "Solange was engaged in something else besides this brothel, that much is certain. The fact Commissaire Savreux couldn't find evidence of it would imply one of two things: that this mysterious second job doesn't exist, or that it does but isn't something one can bring up to the police."

"You think she was breaking the law? That sweet little whore-for-money? Imagine!"

James glared at her. "Her employment here was a well-known fact. This establishment is well-known and it is allowed to exist. Whatever Solange was up to when she left, however, afforded her the funds to have her own apartment." He thought back to Liliane Lavie and her fully-stocked larder. "Perhaps something the other victims were involved with as well."

"Good luck getting anyone to talk to you."

"Oh, they'll talk. I may look like a copper, but there is one police officer every criminal welcomes with open arms. The corrupt officer, the fallen detective. The sort of man who might show up at a shady establishment in the middle of the day, already stinking of booze, with an erudite prostitute on his arm."

Josette narrowed her eyes. "What's erudite mean? You callin' me hairy?"

"That would be hirsute. Erudite is, ah... scholarly. Wise."

"Cor. Haven't ever had a man say so many nice things to me with my clothes on. And just so we're clear on this matter, my fee--"

"Valuable. Yes. I would pay you for your services."

She shook her head. "No. I was going to say my fee will be getting this bastard off the streets. I've been staying here 'cause I'm just too frightened to go out alone. You think I can help you, I'm happy to lend a hand."

James smiled. "Fantastic. Give me a moment with the room to see if it has any secrets to release. You may take the time to prepare for our excursion."

She slipped out of the room and James at last turned his focus to the search. The bed was no use; no prostitute would leave anything valuable where her clients could stumble over it. He went to the small vanity which had been set up so that the mirror reflected the goings-on in the sheets. He tried each drawer, finding none of them locked, and stepped back to examine his reflection. Certainly Savreux's men had checked the vanity, so to do another search would waste his time. He examined the lines on his face and then noticed a small clock reflected over his right shoulder. He turned to face it head-on.

Small and wooden, it was a cuckoo clock that didn't seem to be working. He approached and stood in front of it, intrigued by the curiosity of its existence. Surely the women had some way to keep track of the time so they would be able to tell the poor gentlemen their time was up. But if the clock was broken what good would it do? He reached out and used his finger to push the hands into the correct position.

The police report said that Solange left the brothel at 11:53. On a whim he turned the clock hands until they rested on ten minutes to midnight, and a mechanism within the body of the clock clicked. He examined the body of it and saw a thin line had opened on the casement. He pulled it forward and saw a stack of papers where the clock's gears should have been.

"Well," he whispered. He took them out and confirmed what he had already suspected. _Ausweis_ , the official papers that allowed people to be out past curfew. A quick examination confirmed they were counterfeited; he had a set of identical papers in his inside coat pocket. He put the stack from the clock into his other pocket so he could examine them later, curious what Solange Monfort was doing with them.

He had just closed the clock when Josette returned. She had draped her bare shoulders with a shawl that tied in front of her, and her hair was covered by a small hat. "Shall we, Monsieur?"

He slipped his arm around hers and smiled. "It would be my honor, Mademoiselle Josette."

Together they left the brothel. James inquired as to the direction in which Solange's body had been found, and Josette pointed him west. He let her dictate their speed, strolling casually alongside her as if they were sweethearts enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon.

"So you've met Monsieur Dupont." She nodded once. "What did you think about him?"

"Sweet and kind. Never really said much to me, always waiting for Solange."

"You noticed nothing odd about him?"

Josette smiled. "Oh-h. You mean that he's a woman." James looked at her and she squeezed his arm. "Don't look so stunned, Mr. Prefers-Company-of-Men." To his relief she lowered her voice when she said this so that she wasn't overheard. "We get plenty of 'em. Some discreet, some not. Don't matter to me one way. Like I said, a mouth's a mouth. Woman client's less likely to hurt you, if you know what I mean. Money spends the same."

"I see."

"Did anyone else at the brothel know about Mr. Dupont's secret?"

"Only anyone who ever talked with him. He disguised his voice, and it was a real good disguise, too. But it fell apart after a little bit. None of us minded." She stopped speaking and looked up at him. "No."

"No?"

"Wasn't him. If you're thinking Mr. Dupont killed Solange, you're a terrible detective and a worse man. You want to suspect someone at the brothel, suspect me. Mr. Dupont wouldn't ever do... he wouldn't..." She worried her bottom lip. "There are men who would, Mr. Watson. Men who I wouldn't hesitate to take down. But if you're going after Mr. Dupont, then I can just stop right here and you can take care of yourself..."

James stopped and turned so that he was facing her. "May I tell you a story, Josette?" She looked away and he hooked a finger under her chin. "Many years ago, I was friends with a man. He was engaged to my best friend in the world, and they were happy together. He was a doting fiancé, and he treated my friend like she was the queen of the world. And then one day he changed. We were scientists, and we did an experiment, and it changed him. Before, I would have trusted the man with my life. If I were to see him now, I would not trust him to shave me with a straight razor without slitting my throat." His voice broke. "Many people, women, innocent women, died because I refused to see the truth when it stared me in the face. I couldn't comprehend that the man I lov--" He bit off the word and looked down at his shoes to compose himself.

"Mr. Dupont... he was another friend of yours?" Josette still sounded angry, but there was a touch of compassion in her voice as well.

"She was the one to whom my other friend was engaged," James said. "She was also part of the experiment, the one that drove John to madness. And now she is here, masquerading as a client at your brothel, and women are once again turning up dead."

Josette cupped his cheek. "Poor Mr. Watson. You're making the same mistake."

He frowned at her. "No. I refuse to let my personal feelings intrude on--"

She pressed her finger against his lips. "You're letting your personal feelings overwhelm the evidence. The first time you blinded yourself with denial. Now you're blinding yourself with a worst-case scenario. You can't see a road where your friend _isn't_ the killer, so you're making everything point to that. Mr. Dupont, you said he was a friend of yours. So he's a detective, too?"

"Ah, of... of sorts."

"Then maybe he's investigating, too."

James narrowed his eyes and considered that, but he almost immediately shook his head. "It's wishful thinking. I don't want her to be guilty, so I must maintain my focus."

"No, you don't. You need to ignore it completely. You cannot make bricks without clay. That's what your proxy said in the books, right? Well, right now you have too much clay. You know too much about the suspect so you're letting yourself sculpt before you have the designs in hand. You're making her the villain when really she might just have gotten the jump on you."

"You think she's investigating the murders."

Josette laughed loud and hard. "I don't think anything, Mr. Watson! I'm just pointing out the fallacy of your arguments. Step back and forget about Mr. Dupont, forget what happened in the past and focus on the now. Don't drag him to the gendarmes just yet."

He had to bend slightly to place a kiss between her eyebrows. "Josette, you may have saved not only a life, but my relationship with my friend. Thank you."

She sighed wearily. "Well, you don't want what's under my skirts, so a gal's gotta make herself useful somehow."

James laughed and took her arm again.


	3. Chapter 3

Josette lit a cigarette and used ash that stunk like cloves to smudge his cheeks. James protested when she started to brush her smutty fingers on his clothes, but she flashed her eyes at him. "You're too together. You wanna look like a bad guy you gotta look like a bad guy. Now hold still." She ran her fingers through his collar-length hair, mussing it until it fell over his forehead. "Good thing you grew this out. You look..."

"Bohemian?"

She laughed. "Yeah, that's it. A'right. You look respectably disrespectful. Lead the way, guv."

They were outside one of the ritziest strip clubs in the area, which was a bit like saying they'd found the coldest part of Antarctica; it was all a matter of degrees. Still, if Solange had been making enough money to buy a nice place to live, she couldn't have been employed at any of the sleazier locations. She needed a place that was both willing and able to pay the big bucks, and this club was the only one within walking distance of the brothel that fit the bill.

James took the still-lit cigarette from Josette and placed it between his own lips as they walked inside. They were nearly to the bar when a man in a black suit was drawn from the back by the sound of their entrance. "I apologize, but we are closed until this evening." He paused when he saw them. "Unless of course you are here looking for a job."

"Perish the thought," James said. "I haven't danced in ages."

Josette covered her mouth with her hand.

The man waved toward the door. "Then scoot. I got too much to do without you two early birds getting in my way."

"I was told a friend of mine frequented here. Mr. Dupont."

"Don't know 'im. You're trying my patience, Ashy."

"The name is James. This is my friend, Josette."

She affected a sloppy curtsey. "Charmed, I'm sure."

The man rolled his eyes. "And I'm out of patience. I tried to be nice."

Josette pulled James' gun from somewhere, and he was as shocked by its appearance as he was at the fact she'd kept it concealed for the entire journey. She cocked the hammer and narrowed her eyes, pushing out her lower jaw so that she looked like a gangster from an American picture show.

"My mister wants to talk to youse," she said in a deeply fake English accent. "You wanna talk to him, y'hear?"

The man stared at the gun. "Is that thing loaded?"

"I'm quite afraid it is," James said softly. "And the lady certainly seems to know how to use it. Unless you'd like a demonstration to that--"

"Nah, no." He moved to the nearest chair and sat down, never taking his eyes off the weapon. "I own this club. I don't want any trouble. Cashbox is--"

James winced. "Oh, for heaven's sake. We're not here to rob you. We're here about Solange."

The tension faded from the man's posture. "Oh, give it a rest. I got no idea who Solange is, other than what I read in the papers."

"Monsieur... I apologize, what was your name?"

"Girard. Laurent Girard." 

James stepped forward and took the cigarette from his lips. He placed it in the first ashtray he passed. "Mr. Girard, I know that Solange danced here. I also know that she was a vital part of your other endeavor. The operation that you run out of the backroom? Or perhaps it's just backstage. How exactly does it work, eh? Men pay for a solo dance with a woman, and while they're in the private room she slips them papers?"

"I have no idea what papers you're talking about. My girls are clean, they're all--"

"I'm speaking of these," James interrupted. He pulled the papers from his pocket and fanned them out. " _Ausweis_. Permission to break curfew and roam the streets of Paris with no fear from the police or their German handlers. All counterfeit, I'm afraid, but in a pinch something is better than nothing. Did Solange steal from you? Is that why you had her murdered?"

Laurent's eyes widened and he shot to his feet. "Bite your tongue! I'd have never killed Solange. No. I didn't... she..." He looked at Josette, who still appeared stunned by the sudden appearance of the papers. "She was the artist. You've never seen work like that. She could make five a day, six if she wasn't working too hard. She brought 'em here, I paid her, and we told people she danced here to explain why she was on the payroll. People get smuggled across the border, they make their way to Paris, they come in here and I get them the proper paperwork to do... whatever it is they need to get done."

James pondered that. "Liliane Lavie worked for you as well, did she not?"

Laurent stared for a moment and then nodded. "She did. She was a driver. She'd get people from wherever they were and make sure they found the club. But whatever you're thinking... those other two ladies who got dead? I've never heard of 'em. So don't be looking for any slasher here."

"I highly doubt the slasher is here," James mused. "I believe he was only here briefly, and is now attempting to cover his tracks by eliminating anyone who could place him here. The girl who drove him, the artist who made his counterfeit papers..." 

Josette said, "The man who set it all up?"

The color faded from Laurent's cheeks and he stood up. "You don't think anyone is coming after me, do you? I-I know nothing. I don't know their real names or their cover identities, I know nothing! I only see them in a dark club when they give me the proper password and I set up the private dances."

"The private dances where the papers are passed off," James said. "Tell me, how many of your dancers are involved in that part of the business?"

"Three. Elise, Sylvie, and Martine."

"Do you have a way to get in contact with them?"

"Sylvie is here. Upstairs asleep. She has nowhere else to go. Martine and Elise live in a boardinghouse not far from here, but there is no telephone."

James said, "I'll need the address. Josette." He turned to her and cupped her cheeks, bending down to kiss her lips. Her eyes were wide when he pulled back and he smiled. "Thank you for opening my eyes."

"Sure. But now you got a debt to me. In more ways than one." She dragged a thumb over her bottom lip. "Kissing's extra."

"I'll see to it that you are paid in full."

Josette smiled. "No offense, Monsieur, but I'd prefer to receive payment before you run off after the crazy killer, _s'il vous plait._ "

#

James stood across the street from the boardinghouse and wondered how in blazes he was going to get inside. The landlady-slash-overlord of the home would never allow a man into her girls' rooms without an escort no matter how desperate he made his plea. Laurent had given him a description of the girls Martine and Elise, so he could only hope to spot them as they entered or departed for errands. 

He whiled away most of the afternoon with his eyes on the door, his mind busily resorting the case into a narrative. Someone had entered the Occupied Zone and made use of the strip club front in order to gain the proper papers. At some point afterward it became necessary to conceal his entrance to the city and he began covering his tracks. Solange made the papers, so she would know what he looked like and under what name he was operating under. Liliane was the driver who took him to the club.

But what of Myriam Rameau and Delphine Mauthier? Myriam found dead in her car and Delphine dead as the apparent loser in a fistfight. He supposed Delphine could have been an inadvertent murder; perhaps she stumbled over the killer or spotted something he couldn't allow the police to be told. Myriam, however, had been staged. Her grisly wounds had been concealed under her clothes. Why would the killer go to those lengths when the other women were left out in the open?

"Where are you stuck?"

The sudden question startled him, and he spun with one hand reached for the gun he'd given to Josette. Standing behind him was Helen Magnus, or rather Jean Dupont. She wore a hat low on her forehead to conceal her thin eyebrows, and her mustache twitched with a slight smile. She leaned in and rested her fingers on his cheek, and the whiskers brushed his top lip as she greeted him with a tender kiss. She wiped her thumb over his bottom lip as she always did, even though she wasn't currently wearing any lipstick to have transferred, and she smiled.

"I've no idea how long you've been following me, but I assume you only got here recently. Yesterday or the day before. I thought I smelled a stench of tobacco you think you eliminate with cologne. I told myself I was merely homesick, but now..." She smiled. "Given that you're waiting out here I can only assume you know about Solange and Liliane. I think you're stuck on how Myriam and Delphine fit into the pattern. It's only logical, as they were the more tangential parts of the plan."

James sighed and flipped his jacket back over into place with exasperation. "Solange was the artist, Liliane the driver. One of the women living here was the one who passed him the papers during a private dance."

"Martine," Helen said. "I spent a fruitless day tracking Elise only to discover she was sick on the night in question."

"You know the precise night our killer arrived in Paris?"

"I do." She pressed her lips together. "He entered the city with me. Liliane drove us both to the club. I was still... myself... then, so Helen Magnus is also on his list of victims. Fortunately, Helen Magnus seems to have fallen off the face of the planet soon after arriving."

James rested his shoulder against the wall. "I suppose that explains why you can't just doff the disguise and walk into the boardinghouse like a long-lost sister."

"Ironic. I perfected this guise in order to ease passage, and now the one time it would help me to be a woman..." She sighed and looked at him. "You didn't answer my question. You were pondering the case when I approached, otherwise I'd have never gotten so close without drawing your attention."

"Myriam Rameau. I haven't a clue how she or Delphine Mauthier fit into the grand scheme."

Helen said, "Delphine was a fount of information. She started out selling her body, but she soon discovered it was much less hassle to sell her mind. She knew where to find black market items, how to avoid patrols, how to find ways out of the city. If something was lost in Paris, she was the best bet. I imagine our killer used her services and, when he had what he wanted, tried to kill her. But she was accustomed to dealing with men like him and she put up a fight. That's the problem associating with someone who gave information freely; your secrets are at risk the moment she hears them."

"Hm." James said. "And Myriam Rameau?"

"I believe that she was the killer's intended target all along, as evidenced by the care he took with her body. The others meant nothing to him, just stage pieces in an attempt to blame a Jack the Ripper copycat for the crimes. Now there are only two people he has left to silence; myself, and Martine Halphen."

"Why hasn't he already taken care of Mme. Halphen?"

"Because he can't bloody find her," Helen groused. "Nor can I. It's one reason I spent so long trailing Elise, because at least she was visible. Martine is never at home, always moving from one place to the next. I've come to believe she's supplementing her income at the club, and the stipend she gets for passing illegal papers, by selling herself to people on the street. She has to stay ahead of the police, so at the same time she's managed to avoid both us and the man who means to kill her."

"Well, she has to come back sometime." James looked at the building. "The woman has to sleep."

"She... sleeps on some of her jobs." James glanced at her and Helen sighed. "There are men who pay a fair amount of money for a woman to take a cold bath. She's then given a sleeping pill and the men--"

"Good _Lord_ ," James gasped. "That's obscene."

Helen shrugged. "Marginally less than the alternative, and it pays well enough."

"Have... you..."

Helen slapped his arm. "Solange told me stories, some of her more unique clientele."

James looked down at their feet and took a moment to phrase his words properly. "I'm very sorry for your loss. I know that you and Solange were... close."

"Thank you," Helen said, her voice uncharacteristically meek. "We met the first time I came into Paris after the Nazis turned it into a prison. We fell for each other almost immediately, and every time I came back we became... reacquainted. She was such a wonderful person. I only regret that I was the last to see her alive."

James shook his head. "I'm glad it was you. Her last memory was with you, not with a perverted client who only saw her as a sheath for his sword. You saw her as a person and you treated her with respect. You truly loved her." He adjusted his jacket, suddenly awkward. "We should all be so lucky to have such... wonderful final moments."

"Oh, James," Helen said. She had bitten her bottom lip and was looking down the alley. She then reached for his arm. "Oh. James..."

He followed her gaze to a man in a hounds-tooth coat across the street. He was examining the dusty window of a storefront, idle but moving with purpose toward the boardinghouse. James crouched so that the alley's shadow better concealed him, and Helen handed him a weapon. He stared at it and then looked up at her. "How do you ladies do that? Pulling weapons from your clothing as if they'd been stitched in."

"A lady never reveals all her secrets, Dr. Watson." She winked and palmed her own weapon, a tiny pistol with a barrel scarcely longer than her finger. She gestured with it. "That's the man who rode with me to the club. I'd swear it on my life."

"Let us hope you don't have to."

Their quarry moved into the alley next to the boardinghouse and was concealed from their view. They waited with increasing anxiety for him to reappear, and twice Helen took a breath as if to speak only to be cut off by James lifting two fingers. Finally the man came back out onto the sidewalk and crossed in front of the boardinghouse. He lingered and lit a cigarette, shook out the match, and settled in to wait.

Moments later a woman burst out of the boardinghouse door, shouting that the building was on fire. She stood next to the entrance and ushered her girls out. The women, most still wearing their bedclothes despite the late hour, scrambled and darted in all directions. Smoke billowed out of the open windows and James knew the culprit had set a fire in the alley to clear the building.

"Now why didn't we think of that?"

"Sometimes it's terrible to be the good guys," Helen said.

James ignored the comment and watched as the killer casually approached the building and went inside. James knew the fire brigade wouldn't rush to respond, so he pushed away from the wall. "Come along, Helen. Our fiend doesn't know it, but he's just waltzed into a mouse trap."

They hurried across the street with their guns concealed, not stopping when they reached the smoke-hazed doorway. The killer was halfway up the stairs, and put on an extra burst of speed when he heard them enter behind him. James brought his gun up and shouted, "Halt!" but the man kept running. At the landing he took off down the row of doors and slammed his shoulder against one. The wood splintered but didn't give way until he'd thrown himself against it three more times, at which point James and Helen had arrived on the landing.

He ducked into the room and James barreled after him, only to be startled by the man standing just inside the threshold. He fired at James point-blank, hitting him in the chest and throwing him back against the banister. The wood shuddered but thankfully did not give way, and James slumped to the ground.

Helen shouted James' name and threw herself at the killer, threading her arm around his and pulling him out of the room. He swung his free arm up and hit her twice in the head, knocking her hat off and sending a wave of straight red hair down across her forehead. His eyes flashed wide in recognition and he struggled to pull his gun around to press the barrel against the soft underside of her throat.

Helen shoved him backward, knocking him against the doorframe before she swept her leg under his. He went down and she pulled the gun from his grip. Unarmed but undeterred, the man lunged from his seated position and grabbed Helen around the waist. She was thrown backward and the doorframe cracked against her spine. She cried out in pain, and the man tossed her to the ground like a rag doll. He retrieved his weapon and aimed it at her, but James mustered his strength to raise his own weapon.

He fired once, and the killer's gun went flying. Unfortunately James' marksmanship wasn't quite what it should have been, and the bullet also took three of the man's fingers. Blinded by pain he retreated, his steps sounding like gunfire as he rushed headlong down the stairs and out into the waning afternoon. James struggled to get up to check on Helen, but his body refused to cooperate. Finally putting aside his fear, he looked down at the front of his vest to see where the bullet had gone in.

One of the tubes that ran from his left shoulder to the breastplate was completely severed. He could feel his muscles beginning to quake at the lack of nutrients and knew it was only a matter of time before he permanently lost control of the limb. After that the rest of the device would have to work overtime to function, and soon his entire body would fail.

Helen pushed herself up with a whimper of pain, rolling onto her hip while holding her upper body stiffly. She spotted James and risked further injury by rushing to him. She put her hand on the bullet wound. "Bloody hell..."

"I suppose it could have been worse," James said, his voice already failing him.

"James..." Helen's voice was trembling with emotion. "Stay awake. If you make me carry you all the way to my flat, I'll kill you myself."

He smiled as his head lolled against the banister, passing out before he could respond.

#

He woke in the flat he'd earlier infiltrated, lying on top of Helen's mattress rather than underneath it this time. It was night out, hopefully the same date, and the only light came from a small lamp in the middle of the room. Helen was standing at the hotplate, her jacket removed to reveal the Y of suspenders on the back of her shirt. Without her hat, her hair was a feminine length pinned up so that it wouldn't fall onto her shoulders. He loved the duality of her in moments like this; not quite female while not entirely male. She was the only person he'd ever met who could pull off both sides with aplomb, and it was one reason he'd lain with her so many times. She aroused him while still satisfying his true desire, and the combination made him feel normal.

"You must be stronger than you appear."

Helen glanced back at him, smiled, and went back to what she was preparing. "I had the benefit of several brawny men who insisted on lending a hand. We loaded you into an apple cart and brought you directly here. I had to pretend you were Gregory Feathering, of course. It worked out quite to my benefit. The building manager was starting to get suspicious that my mysterious neighbor had yet to show himself." She tapped her spoon against the side of a cup and brought it to him. "Drink this. It's dreadful, but it's better than the coffee."

"Thank you, Helen."

She sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he took the first drink. He gagged, and Helen smiled. "You get used to it."

"No, you don't."

"No, you don't," Helen agreed. "But again, it's better than nothing. Speaking of better than nothing..." She reached up and used two fingers to push open his shirt. He saw that the tubing had been repaired in a rather slapdash manner. "I did what I could, but Nikola is the engineer. Once we're back in England we'll have him do a more permanent patch. You're just fortunate the breastplate deflected the bullet, else we'd have much larger problems to contend with."

"Thank you for your help, Helen."

"I'm only glad our paths finally crossed. If you'd gone in alone, I... I shudder to think what might have happened to you, James." She wet her lips, then reached up to touch her mustache. "Have you been in Paris long?"

"I arrived not long after Delphine Mauthier's body was discovered. The French police thought it was another Ripper case."

Helen watched him for a long moment. He saw the pieces sliding together in her mind. "You thought I was responsible. That's why you didn't try to make contact."

James met her gaze unflinchingly. "For a time. Yes."

"Oh, James, how could you ever--"

"Because we never considered John. Not until it was staring us in the face."

Helen looked away from him. "I'd ask how you could think such a thing, but it's rather obvious, isn't it? I haven't exactly been the same woman I was at Oxford."

"We've all changed, Helen."

"For the worse." She looked at him. "Except for you, of course. Sweet, dear James. It's no wonder you didn't accept the offer to share my gift. Immortality for you is just the opportunity to watch all of your friends become monsters. What a dreadful thing that would be."

"I resent your tone, Helen."

She stood and walked away from him. "Our lives are darker than most, James. But not because of the blood, because we're... we keep to the shadows. We move underground and we brush against darkness. And yes, some of that rubs off, but we are stronger than the temptation."

"John wasn't. Nigel is a thief. Nikola--"

"Nikola slakes his thirst with animal blood."

"Blood isn't Nikola's only lust, Helen, and you should be as afraid as I am of where it might lead."

She put her hands on her hips and hung her head. "The blood didn't change us, James. You already had intellect, and Nikola had the gene for vampirism. I was simply born before my time and given the opportunity to live to the proper era."

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Helen scoffed. "Perhaps if there were only one of us. There are four of us remaining, James. We'll balance one another, we'll stop each other before--" She stopped and turned to face him. "That's what you were doing. If you'd discovered I was responsible, you would have killed me."

"Yes." There was no sense in lying to her. "And in the future, if I suspect you've gone off the rails again, I will do the same. You would do no less for me." He pushed himself up off the pillows. "You searched for John alongside me. You tried to put a bullet in him, the same as me. And if I ever attempted to use my intellect the way Adam Worth did, you would take arms and--"

"You swore you would never use that against me." Her voice broke as she took a quick step closer to the bed. "You know how that moment haunts me. How dare you, James."

He looked down at his hands. "I apologize, Helen. But the darkness you felt in that moment, the dark cloud that followed you in the days afterward. John felt the same thing. He fought back at first, but eventually it took control of him. It became too strong. I fear that it is only a matter of time before the rest of us succumb as well."

She sat on the edge of the bed. "Then we'll have to keep a close eye on one another. But no more secrets, no furtively pursuing each other across the continents. John lost his battle because he fought it alone. We mustn't make the same mistake." She touched his cheek and, after a moment, leaned in to press her lips against his. James tilted his head and it became a kiss, his tongue teasing her bottom lip until it surrendered and allowed him in. She sucked the tip gently, one hand sliding up the outside of his leg to rest on his hip.

He was well aware of the mustache, of her entire masculine persona, and pulled back just long enough to look into her eyes for confirmation of what would happen. She nodded once before closing her eyes and kissing him again, so he moved his hand to the front of her trousers and cupped what he found there. 

The mold was a flaccid penis tucked against a scrotum, made with the assistance of a lovely young volunteer who matched Helen's height and body type. James traced the length of it and Helen moved her hips as if she was physically responding to the touch, nipping his bottom lip with her teeth as she moved her hand to his bulge. She brought one leg up onto the bed so they were facing each other, the kiss becoming more passionate as she worked at the buttons of his trousers so she could get to him.

"Helen... stop." He pulled back, his lips skimming her cheek as she put her hand inside his pants. Her fingers scratched him through his underwear and his lower body squirmed. "The boardinghouse. The killer..."

"He's out of commission for the night, thanks to you." She kissed his nose and along his eyebrows. "He's not going to kill anyone with that hand of his. We'll resume the search in the morning but for now Martine is safe and I must have you. Please, James." She covered his mouth with hers, and he moaned in defeat as their tongues met again. He moved his hand from her crotch to the lowest button of her shirt, undoing it as her fingers finally coiled around his length and squeezed.

"Leave it on," she whispered when he undid the topmost button. He nodded and let the material drape, pulling back and glancing down so he could see what he was doing when he undid her belt. Helen continued to stroke him, peppering his face with kisses, and then rose so he could push her pants down and off. The faux part of her anatomy was tucked snugly into her trousers, an incongruous bulge that made James' mind reel.

She ignored his look of lust and took off his pants, dragging them down to his knees before lowering herself to the bed. She took him into her mouth, just the tip at first, but James sank down so he could lift his hips in anticipation. Helen moistened him with lazy circles of her tongue before taking more of him in, and James remembered Josette idly saying, _"A mouth's a mouth."_

" _Au contraire_ ," he gasped. Helen looked up, her question evident in her eyes, but he shook his head and brushed his hand through her bangs. "Nothing. Nothing, dear God. Keep going."

Helen bowed her head again, and James grunted. John had been the first to take James into his mouth, and Helen had been eager to mimic the move. James was more than happy to be her guinea pig, and for a time it had been a hobby of theirs. Late nights in the lab, tea time, sitting idly in the library, whenever they had a spare moment Helen would casually inquire if he would like her tongue. Though James occasionally felt guilty for not reciprocating, he nearly always said yes. 

She was simply magnificent at it. Better than John, better than anyone would had ever sunk to their knees in front of him. She kept her forefinger looped over the base, with her thumb pressed against the spot underneath the shaft where it met his body. In this way she could hold off his orgasm indefinitely with just the slightest pressure from her fingertips. She drove James mad in this manner, taking him to the edge without allowing him the release he needed. 

When he could take no more, Helen let him drop from her mouth, running her fingers over the glistening length as she pulled away. "Up. On your knees."

James noticed that she had resumed speaking in the raspy, rough voice she used when in her male guise. James obeyed her instructions and knelt facing the headboard with his fingers curled over the wooden arch of it. Helen took something from her bag, and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as she climbed onto the bed behind him. Her flaccid penis was discarded; he could see it in the tangle of sheets, but then he felt the blunt tip of something against his ass.

"A gift from Solange. She let me use it on her." She kissed his neck, one hand stroking his cock while she spread saliva over the tip of hers. "She called me Jean when I fucked her."

James bit off a cry of surprise as Helen was suddenly inside of him. "Jean," he said, knowing that to both their ears it would sound like another person's name. Helen withdrew all but the very tip, squeezing the base of him again so he couldn't finish before she was ready for it. She kissed his neck and then ran her tongue along his shoulder, angling her hips back so that she rested at the very rim of his entrance. 

"I couldn't have harmed her, James," she said as she drove into him once more. "I loved her. And I will do anything--" Her hips slapped against his and James' entire body seized. "--to make the man who killed her--" She withdrew and slammed forward again, and James' fingers curled against the wallpaper. "--pay for what he's done."

"Jean, please," James grunted.

Helen ran her fingers up to the head of his cock and cupped him. It twitched against her, the sensitive head brushing over the satin-smooth skin of her palm, and he convulsed. Helen continued to push inside of him as her hand was filled, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as she continued to rock forward and back. When he sagged forward to rest his face on his crossed arms, Helen lowered herself to rest on his back, kissing his hair as she settled his hips on her lap.

"Thank you, James," she gasped.

He laughed and looked over his shoulder at her. "What in the world are you thanking me for?"

She smoothed her hand over the curve of his hip and dug her fingers into his ass. "Without you, I'd have never known this. I'd have never had the opportunity to be like this with someone I love. Thank you."

"It is most certainly my pleasure, Helen." 

Helen dismounted, removing the item she had held in place with a series of straps slung around her hips. She moved from behind him and stretched out on the other side of the mattress as James rolled to face her. She tucked one arm under her head and moved the other hand between her legs, idly stroking herself as she met James' eye. He watched her, one hand toying with a nipple as she teased herself. He looked down and watched her slender fingers at play. Soon the first two fingers were wet, and her breathing was ragged again.

"If you want, I could--"

"Don't you dare," she whispered, eyes closed. "It would ruin the moment. And I don't feel like bottoming this evening. It's fine... it's fine, I'm almost there."

James bowed his head to her breast, taking the nipple into his mouth and sucking until she climaxed. She kissed the top of his head, rifling the fingers of her hand through his hair before pressing the wet fingers to his lips. He dutifully sucked them dry, then stretched up to find her lips again. Helen draped a leg over his hip and molded her body to his, their lips playing against each other in increasingly lazy kisses, until James realized Helen had fallen asleep.

He held her close, stroking her arms and back, grateful that for once his worst fears hadn't come true.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, James went to the house's phone to call Commissaire Savreux. To his relief there had been no further murders in the night. A doctor did report being abducted by a man missing two fingers on his right hand. The doctor was forced to suture the wounds on threat of bodily harm, and was released after the patient's hand was sloppily-bandaged. James confirmed the three-fingered man was their killer and ordered a guard on Martine's boardinghouse.

When he returned to the room, Helen was in the bath. Her knees were drawn to her chest, and he sat on the edge to run the sponge over her back. He reported what he had learned and she sighed. 

"Well, at least we've been granted another day. But he knows where Martine is."

"I'm more concerned with the fact he now knows about your disguise. He can cover up everything that connects him to Paris."

"I can handle him. Martine may not even know she's in danger." She leaned back and stood, forcing James to look away from her nudity as she toweled off and began to dress. "The police guard is a good idea, but we have to prepare for the eventuality that Martine will see them as the enemy. She won't trust anyone with a badge no matter what the danger."

"I may have a way around that. I owe a bit of money to a prostitute named Josette--" Helen raised an eyebrow at him over one bare shoulder. "Not for _that_. She was extraordinarily useful to me in the course of my investigation. Perhaps I could also employ her to watch over our killer's final loose end."

"Do you think she'd be up to it?"

"She knows how to use a weapon, and she can bluff with the best of them. And it could come to the eventuality that our killer won't strike until Martine is alone. Josette could protect her merely by being present."

Helen tucked her shirt into her trousers and then shrugged into her suspenders. "Sounds reasonable to me. Do you think we should return to the club? Laurent may know more than he's saying. I've asked him for information, but he insists that he's unaware of the man's identity."

"I believe him on that count. No, we're not going back to the club." James gathered Helen's hair for her, and she settled her hat on top of it. "We're going to Myriam Rameau's home. I believe she was the killer's intended target. Now we simply have to figure out why."

#

Josette was more than willing to play bodyguard - for a price, of course - and James sent her off with a few bills and the weapon she still hadn't returned to him. Josette was intrigued by James' new companion, who was finally officially introduced to her. Josette dropped her flirtatious act to extend her condolences for Helen's loss, sincerity that brought tears to Helen's eyes, and she embraced the girl for a moment longer than necessary. Josette chuckled against her neck and said, "Maybe one night we could commiserate." She pulled back and glanced at James. "Unless, 'course, you've already moved on. You still like being with us softer ones, yeah?"

Helen had smiled, kissed the girl's knuckles, and said, "My dear, I can appreciate every color in the spectrum."

Afterward James swore the girl had purred as she trotted off to fulfill her mission. Helen dismissed him with a roll of her eyes, but he did catch her turning to watch the girl as they went in their separate directions.

James got Myriam Rameau's address from the police and hired a cab to take them to it. During the drive James filled Helen in on the details from the police report she'd been unable to acquire. She blanched when he mentioned how the officer discovered her wounds, watching the white stone buildings blur past her window. 

"I asked Savreux about Mme Rameau, and he told me they discovered she'd entered Paris only five months ago. I imagine if we examined her papers we would discover they were likely Solange's handiwork. I believe she came here to hide. One wonders how bad it could have been wherever she came from, if a Nazi-Occupied France is the superior choice."

Helen said, "The man she is running from killed three women just to find and kill her. Even Hell would be preferable to a life with someone like that."

They were deposited outside of a furniture store, the upper level of which had been converted into four loft spaces. Myriam lived in one of the two that faced the streets, and James picked the lock to allow them entrance. Helen walked inside and examined the space with her hands in the pockets of her coat. James joined her and examined the walls. Framed drawings took up most of the space, the Parisian skyline and charcoal portraits of friends, and the parlor table was covered with stacks of novels.

"It looks like she found the new start she was looking for," Helen said. "Pity it was cut so short."

"Indeed." James crouched on the edge of the throw rug, the unofficial boundary between the living area and the kitchen. The carpet looked new, whereas everything else in the apartment was threadbare and secondhand. He lifted the corner and saw dark streaks in the floorboards. Someone had done a fair job of cleaning up, and then covered their work with a new carpet. "I believe we've found her murder site. He found her at home and killed her in what should have been her safe haven."

Helen moved toward the bed. "I'll see if I can find anything that might indicate where she came from. Although I doubt she'd keep any mementos of a life so horrific."

"Eyes open for anything. A book, a letter, a souvenir. She herself may not have been aware of the clues she was leaving." He picked up a small snow globe representing the Arc de Triomphe, shook it, and replaced it on the countertop. He checked the icebox, knowing that her taste in food could have bearing on where she was from, but found nothing particularly telling.

"James."

He crossed behind the divan to the bedroom, where Helen was holding a small leather-bound book. She glanced up to make sure he had joined her and then flipped to the first page. "It's written in Dutch, which I'm afraid you read even worse than I do. But the gist of it... 'To the people investigating my murder. My name is not Myriam Rameau, it is Margriet van der Asdonk. I come from Bruges, where I lived with my husband Wiebrand. If it is at all possible, you must arrest him for my murder. I know he is to be blamed.'"

"How could the police have missed that?"

Helen gestured. "It was a book in a woman's nightstand. They must have thought it was her diary and been too respectful to go through it."

"Wonders never cease. Incompetence due to chivalry." 

"Don't be too harsh on them, James. You wouldn't have read it, either."

She had a fair point. "Now we have a name for our beast. How does it help us track him down?"

Helen had continued flipping through the book and then smiled. "The name won't help, but maybe this will." She turned the book around so he could see the page. He tried to read it, then looked helplessly at her. She rolled her eyes and muttered, "The great detective."

"I simply haven't had the time for _Dutch_."

"You of all people complaining about time!" Helen scoffed. "It says that Wieb has a certain craving. One that can only be sated at certain locations in Paris. Call the Commissaire. We've just narrowed down the search parameters considerably."

#

"Helen, tell me you've never availed yourself of these services." He kept his voice low, as if afraid the walls would absorb it and reveal his presence to future generations.

Helen seemed nonplussed. "And what if I had, James? Is it any more peculiar than what you and I did last night? To an outsider, our coupling was bizarre at best."

James blushed and averted his gaze from one of the women lounging on a nearby chair. After an initial burst of salesmanship, the ladies had retreated when their advances were rebuffed. Upstairs they could hear cries of pain - or pleasure? It was impossible to differentiate, even for him - issuing from the private rooms. He tugged at the lapels of his coat. "Considering everything that is happening in the world right now, the brutality being visited upon unwilling victims, I simply find it unseemly to pay for such tortures."

"You cannot compare this to what the Germans are doing," Helen said, sounding righteously indignant. "They are a regime of hatred, and they cause pain because they can. Simply to prove their own superiority. This," she gestured at the ceiling, "is a game of control. Surrendering it on one end, and accepting it on the other."

James watched her. "You _have_ done this?"

Helen seemed to consider not answering, but then faced him fully. "One night Solange asked if she could spank me. I agreed. After that, occasionally she would bind me, or use a gag. It was exhilarating to be helpless beneath her."

"I doubt that is a feeling I would find erotic."

Helen covered his hand with hers and squeezed. She was about to say something further when they were interrupted by a statuesque woman clad in a black and red robe. It molded to her curves as she moved, indicating she wore very little if anything underneath, and she smiled as she stopped in front of their chairs. "Which of you is the client, and which one would just like to watch?"

James appeared flustered by the question, so Helen answered. "We're looking for information, actually. About one of your clients."

"Then I'm afraid you must leave. Right now, please." She turned to walk away.

Helen stood. "The man we seek is responsible for the death of four women. If he's not stopped, he will kill again before vanishing completely. His wife left a note saying that he frequented this sort of brothel. As all of his crimes occurred within Montmartre, it is most likely that he came here. He would know that this sort of establishment is utterly discreet when it comes to their clientele, unlike the hostels or boardinghouses he could have found. This is the only place he could have anonymity while carrying out his bloody mission."

The madam had stopped, her back to Helen during the speech. "This man. Describe him."

"His name is Wiebrand van der Asdonk. Just shy of six feet tall, sandy blond hair, pale skin--"

"Wieb."

The word was spoken from the doorway of the parlor. One of the girls who had been lounging earlier was on her feet, eyes wide. Helen realized she'd been feigning indifference and had probably overheard the entire conversation. The madam looked at her, narrowing her eyes before speaking. "Nathalie? If you know something, you should tell these gentlemen."

The girl eyed Helen and James warily, then looked up as if imploring the heavens for help. "He's hurt."

"We're the ones who hurt him," James said. "At the time he was preparing to lie in wait for his fifth victim."

Helen said, "The only crime his victims committed was that they could place him here, in Paris, at the time his wife was murdered. When he is ready to leave, you will be expendable."

The girl paled even further and pointed at the stairs. "First floor. Room three. He's resting right now, from the morphine the doctor gave him for his hand."

Helen mouthed, "Thank you," and slipped a gun from beneath her jacket. To the madam, she said, "Quietly get these girls out of here."

James preceded her up the stairs, his gun drawn as he quietly knocked on the first door he passed. A woman threw the door open, more angry about the intrusion than concerned with her nudity. James' cheeks flushed red as he put a finger to his lips and ushered her out. Helen cleared out the second room, guiding the girl and her client to the madam waiting on the stairs to escort them out. Once the way was clear of any potential hostages, Helen and James took up positions on either side of the door.

"Monsieur?" Helen's voice was flirtatious and feminine, incongruous when issued from beneath her mustache. "Nathalie said you may need a hand with your toilette...?" 

They heard a rustling from within, and the man coughed loudly before he began to move toward the door. The lock was thrown, and James watched the knob as it began to twist. When the tongue was clear of the latch, he threw his weight against it. Weibrand was knocked back and pinned against the wall, too dazed to react when James stepped into the room and swung the butt of his pistol down against the man's temple. He dropped to the floor with a keening cry of pain.

James placed his knee on the man's back, and Helen wrenched his arms back to secure his wrists. His wounded hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage, his missing fingers creating a wide gap between the remaining two. Helen took the hand in hers and pressed her thumb against the soft flesh just below his stumps. He cried out and bucked against the threadbare carpet, his shoes banging a staccato on the floor as she increased the pressure.

"Her name was Solange Monfort, and she was loved." She squeezed harder, and a fresh bloom of blood rose on the gauze.

"Jean," James said softly. "Jean... _Helen._ "

She looked at him, then at the wounded man they had just taken into custody, and she reluctantly released him. He whimpered in relief, and Helen stood up to brush off the front of her suit. She cleared her throat, checked to ensure her facial hair was still in place, and stepped out of the room. "Keep an eye on him, would you James? I'll alert the police."

"Commissaire Collin Savreux," James said.

She nodded and hurried from the room. James lifted his knee and hauled Weibrand up by the collar of his shirt. "You should have just let her leave. Myriam... she was no longer yours."

He was pale and his skin looked clammy, his hair clinging to his forehead as his features slumped with defeat. He looked at James and, for a moment, there was a flash of human emotion behind the eyes. "Would you have? Would you have let the woman you loved vanish into the dark, afraid and alone? I was protecting her. I was protecting all of them from far worse."

"You were the worst thing any of those women faced. You're an abomination." He shoved Wiebrand down onto floor, shoving his shoulders back to make him lean against the bed. He kept the gun on the prisoner and then decided to answer his question. "She chose her path. Whether or not it was the one you would have chosen for her is immaterial. You cannot stop her from walking it. You can only hope she is strong enough to walk it on her own, and be there to catch her if she should fall. That is all you can do."

Helen returned a minute or so later. "Savreux is on his way."

"Excellent." He glanced around the room and suddenly noticed the tools of the trade that were casually left out in plain sight. "Perhaps... we should await his arrival on the street. No need bringing undue attention to this establishment."

Helen smiled at James' discomfort and helped him lift Wiebrand to take him downstairs.

#

James embraced Helen outside of the boardinghouse. "You're certain you won't come back with me? England misses you."

"The whole country, or just its greatest mind?" She smiled and leaned back, cupping his cheek. "I came here on a mission, James. Wiebrand simply distracted me for a few days but, now that he's safely imprisoned, I can focus on what I actually came here to do."

"Very well," James said with great reluctance. "But if you need help--"

"I will call you the moment I feel I'm in over my head."

James muttered suspiciously, certain of how likely it would be that she'd keep the promise. But he kissed her on both cheeks and then the lips, and adjusted the collar of her jacket. 

"I should be back in England by the end of summer."

James nodded. "Excellent. I'll make certain your rooms are ready for you."

Helen smiled and squeezed his hands. "Thank you, James. For coming to find me."

"I'd break down the doors of Hell if I thought you were in trouble on the other side. Good luck with your mission, Jean."

"And with whatever horrors are sure to await you in England," she said.

They embraced once more, and then James finally separated himself from her. He climbed into the cab and gave his destination as the brothel where Solange and Josette were employed. She was waiting in front of the door, slumped against the stone, but she straightened when she saw his cab approach. He rolled down the window as she stepped forward and presented the gun he'd given to her.

"Safe and sound, didn't even fire it once."

"Perhaps you'll be luckier next time."

She winked and rested her arms on the window, leaning into the cab to press her lips against his. James tolerated the kiss - it wasn't exactly a hardship - and then smiled when she withdrew.

"Are you trying to get me indebted to you again?"

"Nah. That was a freebie. Next time you're in Paris, we'll celebrate running the damn Jerries out of the place. You, me, and Jean. 'Tween the two of us, I'm sure you'll find something to make your motor rev." She touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth.

James said, "You're an intelligent woman, Josette. The police could do with a mind like yours."

She looked down the street with her lips pursed. "Sometimes you have to do things you're not proud of, Mr. Watson. This job may not be as respectable as working for the police, but I also don't have to worry about Germans coming in and taking over, telling me what to do. 'Sides, it's not like they're running recruitment drives for lady officers. I do what I have to, and my son gets to eat at night. I'd say it's a good compromise."

James nodded. "I apologize for casting aspersions."

"You ain't the first. At least you were kind about it." She reached out and adjusted his collar. "Next time you're in Paris. Promise me. You'll find me."

"I promise. But what if you're no longer employed at this establishment? How will I find you?"

She scoffed. "You always such an optimist?"

"Only when it's warranted."

She pinched his cheek. "Just ask around. Josette Benoit. People will know where to find me."

James kissed the back of her hand. "It was a pleasure, Josette."

"Safe travels."

"And to you, Josette."

She stepped back, and James indicated the driver could continue on. In a few miles he would leave the cab for a more discreet method of transportation, one that would take him across the line into Belgium. He intended to find the family of Margriet van der Asdonk, the erstwhile Myriam Rameau, and tell them of their daughter's fate. Helen and Commissaire Savreux would see to it that the remains were sent back to them by hook or by crook; they would see to it that she would not be forced to occupy an unmarked grave for eternity.

As he rode through the city, currently sun-dappled and lively if not quite bustling, it was easy to forget that it was under siege. The darkness of the Occupation was held at bay by the necessity of life continuing on unabated. Paris was in the grip of a dark period, was held by monstrous creatures who had little regard for human life, but in that moment he could see glimpses of its true nature shining through.

The darkness that claimed John and threatened to overtake Nikola with each passing day was alive and well in Helen. It had settled deep within her, occupying her like a military force, trying to change her very nature. But Helen, like Paris, was resilient. No matter how strong the darkness became or how long it was nurtured in her breast, he now had little doubt that Helen Magnus would overcome. Even the version of her that he'd seen from the future had shown promise. There were signs of the bright-eyed and eager young scientist he'd known from Oxford even as he bid her adieu. 

If she could maintain the spark, the light that made her Helen Magnus, for nearly two centuries, he doubted she would ever fully succumb to the darkness. One way or another, she would always be herself. She would always be the woman he loved.

James settled back against the seat and dozed until they reached the next leg of the journey home.


End file.
